


you got time, you're on the mend babe

by coastcitytourism



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, uh yeah this has to do with the RB switch so not happy at all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-03 20:20:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20458880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coastcitytourism/pseuds/coastcitytourism
Summary: "...thinks about when things were simpler and he and Charles were just two best friends against the world, racing go karts and spending holidays together and not caught up in the shitshow of Formula One."





	you got time, you're on the mend babe

**Author's Note:**

> wow i'm actually really surprised there hasn't been more about this written  
anyways...im not terribly familiar with the ship, but god damn everything thats been happening to pierre is fucking beart wrenching, the fact that marko was just like "yeah haha hes got psychological issues so the switch was necessary"...fucking hell, can someone please go make sure dude is mentally okay? some of the thursday pics he looked rough, plus they keep asking the same questions and....ugh it just makes me so sad. also made me sad when they were talking to max about when he first raced against alex and he brought Pierre up like I genuinely think Max is good with pierre and....idk.  
this is my mid season switcheroo vent piece. It may suck but uh yeah  
as usual, this is a work of fiction, please dont use elsewhere without my permission, you all know the drill  
title is from "you worry me" by nathaniel rateliff.  
all of the french is via google translate bc i am a one language knowing loser so if its incorrect please let me know!

He can only get through so many of the interviews before the ringing in his ears grows deafening and the urge to throw up hits him all at once. Pierre excuses himself from the media room, throws the journalists an apologetic smile (as if they're looking anywhere but right through him in the first place), forces his way through the crowds and straight into the Toro Rosso hospitality area. He lurches into his driver's room and slams the door behind him, crumpling into himself on the floor and trying desperately to calm his breathing.

It's not fair. Not fair at all, they told him it wouldn't end up like this, that his seat would be okay, that they'd help him. And now here he is, demoted to the B team, watching the life he's given everything for slowly dissipate into nothingness because of his own shortcomings. It hurts, all the way down into his bones, leaves him trembling and gasping for breath, clawing at his own skin and trying so hard to not let the tears fall and-

His phone buzzes. Once, twice, three times, doesn't stop buzzing. Pierre can't decide whether to pick up or throw it across the room- it's probably Tost telling him to get his ass back out there, and he just can't do that, can't handle anymore of the deluge. A deep inhale pierces his lungs, and he flips the phone over to at least see who it is. A familiar name, bright red racecar emoji next to it. Charles.

Suddenly he can't answer the phone quick enough, gasping out a "Charles?" the moment the call goes through. He probably sounds just as shitty as he feels, voice hoarse with silent sobs that he can't quite force out.

"Où es-tu? Tout va bien?" Charles asks, and Pierre immediately feels bad for worrying Charles with his stupid insecurities. He sits for a moment and contemplates whether or not he should tell the Monegasque he's one media question away from a full blown panic attack or not.

"S'il vous plaît parlez-moi...please?" Charles pleads from the other end of the line, the connection cracking a bit. Pierre can hear footsteps, infers that Charles is probably actively seeking him out, feels even shittier.

Pierre closes his eyes and counts to ten in his head, thinks about when things were simpler and he and Charles were just two best friends against the world, racing go karts and spending holidays together and not caught up in the shitshow of Formula One. His voice creaks when he finally speaks back, and as much as he wants to launch into a rant in his native tongue, his brain just doesn't let him.

"I'm...not good, actually. Not well at all." He sighs, trying to ignore his racing thoughts and churning stomach and pounding heart. Twenty three years old, and he's already a has-been. It fucking hurts.

"Mon coeur..." Charles breathes, sounding pained, "Your room?" 

Pierre manages a affirmative hum in response, not completely sure if he wants Charles to see him in such a state or not. He doesn't have a choice, however, when Charles says "I will be there in a minute." and hangs up resolutely. Pierre doesn't even have time to drown in his thoughts before there's a knock on his door and Charles barges in.

He takes in the sight of the older Frenchman curled up on the floor, lets a tiny, heartbreaking sound escape from his throat, and collapses to wrap himself around Pierre's trembling frame. Here's his best friend, his fucking soulmate, barely managing to hold himself together. Charles own chest aches for Pierre, but all he can think to do is hold the Frenchman as be breaks himself apart.

Pierre clings to Charles silly red Ferrari polo like a lifeline, the royal blue of the Toro Rosso kit standing in stark contrast. It seems like every terrible weekend, every crash that's left him shaken to the core, every single tweet he's read about his failures hit him all at once- he lets out a pathetic sob and burys his face into Charles shoulder. It wouldn't be like this if he was faster, better, more like Max or, fuck, more like Alex even, if he hadn't crashed in the preseason and gotten that damn concussion that scared him to the bone. Instead, he's lost one of the best seats in the sport, is slipping his way out completely. He can almost tangibly feel everything he's worked so hard to achieve slipping out of his fingers; he pulls Charles closer and cries harder.

And all Charles can do is be there. Nothing he can do will fix Pierre, will make the hell of the past six months disappear, will make the pain any less. He holds Pierre, tucks the Frenchman under his chin and urges Pierre to listen to his heartbeat and his breathing and replicate it, tells him he loves him and he's sorry and he deserves better, even if none of those words reach beyond the surface of Pierre's brain. 

Eventually the shaking subsides, the breathing settles, and Pierre slowly lets go of Charles shirt. He still feels fucking awful, pronably looks it too, but that won't go away with a single bout of emotion, probably won't go away for a while yet. He feels a soft touch on his cheek, Charles gently tipping his head up to press a soft kiss on his lips.

"Ça va mon amour," he whispers, runs a hand through Pierre's messy bangs and glances into deep blue eyes- an unchanging constant in his life since he was just a kid.

And for a moment, when he's in Charles arms, far from the critique of the outside world, the pressures of Christian Horner and Helmut Marko and everyone else fade and he's not watching himself slip down into failure, when it's just him and his Monegasque, Pierre can believe it.

**Author's Note:**

> wow okay thank you for reading, feedback is very welcome also you can just comment if you want to be sad for pierre with me, because i am Sad


End file.
